


No Other Baby

by 221Btls



Series: Dear Boy [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, My god how they love each other, Retirementlock, Sherlock is a drama queen, married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 12:36:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13481634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls/pseuds/221Btls
Summary: Sixty-eight years old and married for ten years to the man who has been in love with him for most of their lives, and Sherlock Holmes still doesn’t get how much John Watson loves him. What a ridiculous man. How could he think John could want anyone but him?





	No Other Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Standalone story in the Dear Boy universe. Here's all that's helpful to know: our boys retired to a cottage in Wales; Katie is John's biological daughter, and John is a renowned author.

“How could you be so goddamn irresponsible?! I have a half a mind to–to–” 

I awake to a shouting John, so angry he splutters. I try to think of a possible reason for this outburst, but my head pounds, and it is all I can do not to heave. John, please, stop yelling. Whatever I have done, I promise to never, ever do it again.

“I’m reporting you for medical malpractice. You’re never practicing medicine in this city, this country, or on this planet, ever again!”

Oh. John is not yelling at _me_ ; I do not practice medicine.

“Doctor Watson, I understand you’re upset, but I did nothing improper.” The voice sounds familiar. Ahh, it is that of Dr. Abernathy. “At sixty-eight years old, your husband is of legal age to give consent, and I think we can agree he’s more than mentally competent. There were no medical reasons to preclude–” Dr. Abernathy abruptly stops talking, and I believe I know why. He is afraid.

I can almost feel John staring down Doctor Abernathy, his eyes piercing his prey with an intensity that only the most courageous could withstand without trepidation. I hope John does not have a gun.

At the thought of John’s ire turned onto me, I shiver; I will lie motionless, pretending I am asleep until he calms down. If he calms down.

John now speaks in hushed tones, and this relieves me; it means he is unarmed. But do not mistake this to mean he is not delivering a very real threat to Dr. Abernathy. I predict that Abernathy will likely take to his bed, not returning to work for several days. That is, if he makes the choice to return to medicine at all.

Footsteps head my way. The measured steps of a tightly wound man who is struggling to maintain control.

“You’re awake, aren’t you.” John’s tone is low. And deadly calm. I crack open an eye and, as I suspected, my husband’s glare is trained on me.

I open my mouth to tell him I am sorry, that I did not mean to worry him, but all I can do is rasp his name. “John.” My mouth is so very dry.

On the slip of space between me and the edge of the bed, John perches, placing his hand tenderly on my face to smooth my cheek and push back my hair. And then, as sweetly as any endearment, he leans down to my ear and murmurs, “If you ever, _ever_ , pull such a ridiculously stupid stunt again, I swear to God, if it doesn’t kill you, I will.” John kisses my temple. “Got that?”

Chastened, I nod, knowing that the origin of his anger is fear; he loves me so very much.

I am sorry, John. I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry. I did not mean to worry you. A tear forms and escapes its confines. (I attribute this vulnerability to my weakened condition. I do not cry. Of course, not!) And, as it escapes, John’s expression transforms from a murderous thunderstorm to a look of such love that if I had not already shed a tear, I would now do so.

Why, you ask, has John threatened to kill me? Let me start from the beginning, nine days ago…

 

 

John gasps with such a force that my head snaps up from where I laze on the sofa. He clutches his chest, and I spring to my feet, rushing to his side.

“John, John! Lie on the floor! Now!” As I take his arm to assist him, he struggles. Is he having a heart attack _and_ a seizure? It is worse than I thought. Please do not die please do not die please do not die. I am not ready, not yet.

As if I will ever be.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?!” John tears his arm from my grasp and glares at me.

“You are having a heart attack, which requires immediate CPR. What does it look I am doing?” I glare back at him. How ungrateful he is, refusing my attempt to save his life.

“I’m not having a heart attack. Jesus Christ.” Hands on his hips, John huffs, his chest expanding with the effort. But as he watches me, a soft smile graces his lips, and he takes my hand in his. “It was really very sweet, though, you rushing in to save me like that. Thank you, sweetheart. I’m fine, just fine.”

My already racing heart picks up a tick as John lifts his face to me. I will not be so unkind (or stupid) as to refuse his kiss.

"You scared me,” I say when we finish kissing, and I hold him to me, the beat of his heart against my chest reassuring.

“Not going anywhere. When will you get that through your thick head?”

“If it was not your heart, what overcame you? It is unlike you to be so dramatic.”

“Right. Me? I never get overexcited. Just like you don’t.” John chuckles. “But look at the message Candy sent me.”

Taking his phone, I scan the text from his new literary agent:

_John! You’ll never believe it! I just got a call from George Culpepper. IN LOS ANGELES!!!! He’s a producer at Iridescent Studios and wants to option your book for a movie!!_

I roll my eyes at the melodrama. Though, I suspect one could not expect much better from a woman saddled with a moniker as devoid of dignity as Candy Cane.

_My God, John. You’re on your way! George doesn’t have a commitment, yet, of course, but he’s thinking Neil Patrick Harris or Tom Hiddleston for the lead. He’ll pay your and Sherlock’s airfares and set you up at the Chateau Marmont for NEXT WEDNESDAY. Call me ASAP so we can strategize. If Culpepper’s laying out this much cash just to get you signed, he’s willing to pay BIG bucks for the rights! Kisses._

By the time I look up from the phone to tell John I am proud of him, he is hurrying toward our bedroom. But before he gets there, he spins on his heel and rushes toward the patio door. I have not seen him move this quickly since Katie told him she was in labor with our first grandchild, a testament to how excited he is.

“Where are you going?” I ask as he opens the patio door.

“Getting our luggage. I need to start packing.”

“It is a nearly a week away. You have plenty of time.” But he is out of earshot, well on his way to the storage room. Following him, I stand in the doorway and watch him re-stack boxes, looking for our bags.

“Wait! I need to tell Candy I’m going.” Pulling his phone from his pocket, John texts her with his index finger, one laborious letter at a time.

“Here, let me,” I say, taking the phone from him. “At this rate, we will miss our flight.”

“No!” John tugs the phone back. And with an apologetic grimace, he says, “Sorry, honey. I just, well, I just want to ask her a couple of things. No sense bothering you.”

I narrow my eyes at him, puzzling over the source of his discomfort, and the only thing I can conclude is that he is hiding something from me. John is a horrible liar; I can always tell when he does (flittering eyes, a light blush high on the cheeks and his right earlobe). But what is it this time? Hmmm.

“No worries, John.” I wave a breezy hand as if I have not a care in the world. “I will leave you to it; I have more important things to do.” I peck a kiss on his relieved cheek and head back to the sofa, pondering just why he was relieved that I let him be.

Plopping myself down, I peer over my laptop at John rolling our bags inside. A wide smile on his face, he pays no attention to me perusing the results of my search for “George Culpepper.” And it is just as well, for surely, he would be alarmed at what must be horror on my face. I have pulled up pages that read  _George Culpepper’s Iridescent Studios Under IRS Investigation_ , _George Culpepper’s Latest Production a Flop_ , and _Is George Culpepper Cheating on His Wife with Mathew Kelleghan?_

What is John getting himself into?! Is this what he is trying to hide, the crowd with which he will be associating?

But before I have time to do further research, my husband accordions my legs and sits down. And picking up my right foot, he sets it on his lap. He presses his thumbs into the arch, and slowly, deliberately, migrates his sorcerer’s thumbs to the ball of my foot. All thoughts of Hollywood scandals fleeing my mind, I sigh, close the laptop, and melt into the sofa cushions.

“Sherlock, honey, you know I firmly believe that our life together is too precious to spend any of it apart. And I know you don’t like leaving the UK. But I do have to ask and if you say no, I won’t ask again.” And as if he has been holding his breath, he exhales and asks, “Sherlock, my love, will you go to Hollywood with me?”

His thumbs keep pressing into the sole of my foot. Deeply. Rhythmically. Hypnotically. A heavy breath leaves my lungs, and my mind soon wafts on an ocean of nothingness. So deep is my relaxation, my bones float in a gelatinous sea of muscle and flesh.

“Sherlock?”

I hear my name from far, far away as if I am in a dream.

“ _Sherlock._ ”

“Mmmmmm?”

“I asked you if you’ll go to L.A. with me.”

Oh. With great reluctance, I come fully back to consciousness, prop myself up, and snatch my foot back lest John put me into another trance. I have no objection to his ministrations, but it is clear John wants me to answer his question, and he wants me to do it _now._ I study his face and, in the eyes that look at me with such love, I recognize the naked hope of what my answer will be.

Though John has no interest in fame and glory, he has long wanted to go to California. And the fact that his novel _The Consulting Detective and His Blogger_ made the best seller lists (I beam with pride at my clever husband’s accomplishment) and has now caught the attention of Hollywood, it will give John the perfect vehicle to do so. In style.

I will not deny I am skeptical; Hollywood has a reputation for depravity, for which I have no taste. But I see the almost desperate desire on my husband’s face that I will agree. And knowing he would never think of going without me, and that I love him beyond reason and would give him anything within my power to make him happy, I say the only thing I can.

“Of course, John.” I whisk a smile onto my face, confident he will not see the degree of falseness in it.

John’s face brightens, as if he were me, discovering there was a new serial murderer in town. “Wonderful! We can rent a car and drive Route 66; I’ve always wanted to do that. Maybe we can go to Disneyland! Oh, and, of course, we have to do a tour of stars’ homes…” Releasing my foot, he continues to chatter as he texts on his phone.

My heart goes flippity flip as my gaze rests on his cherished face, and I wonder how, in my younger days, I could have been so disparaging as to think love is only for the frivolous. My life was so much poorer without it.

How rich I am now.

~**~ 

 

My head rests on the pillow next to John’s, and I watch his face, the lines of fatigue from our journey finally fading. I watch the sheet that covers him rise and fall with the cadence of his breathes, watch the shallow flare of his nostrils. I feel the movement of his legs as they shift, seeking comfort.

And I move to the chair.

Watching my John sleep is a preoccupation that, for years, has reliably brought me a sense of happiness and well-being. Until today. Today, I am ashamed to admit that in the twenty-two hours since we landed in California—sixteen hours of which John has been sleeping(!)—my restless mind has had time to develop suspicions regarding the least suspicious person I know: John. I want to dismiss my thoughts as nothing more than the fruition of an overactive intellect, yet, from no matter which way I look at it, the evidence is damning—John is lying. But about what? That, I have yet to deduce.

Not for the first time since we left home, I lay out the evidence:

 **Exhibit A**. John forbade me to see his text responding to Candy. Now, of this, I am not proud, but so enflamed was my curiosity, I searched John’s text history and found a most curious thing—it had been deleted from his phone. Why would innocent texts be deleted? They should sit in one’s phone until oblivion…or until the guilty covers his tracks. Now, this one incident would not be enough to cause alarm. Yes, yes, I know about coincidences. But this is _John_ I speak of. To call his technological skills “marginal” would be kind, and he could not knowingly have deleted his texts. Could he?

There is more.

 **Exhibit B**. Because I was distracted by the deleted texts, to sate my inquiring mind, I pulled up our phone account. Not only were there forty-three texts between John and Candy but, later that day, a twenty-two-minute phone call to an unknown number. What is suspicious about the latter, one might ask? My dear husband never speaks with _anyone_ for twenty-two minutes, not even me; therefor, who could this mystery person be? I called the number (of course, I did!), and it went through to the International Private Detective Association. It would be disingenuous of me to say I was not wounded by this information. John sleeps, eats, and breathes with a detective, and he has never given me any indication that he considers my talents diminished. True, I rarely work active cases these days, but my cognitive abilities are every bit as acute as they were the day we met. “Amazing. Brilliant. Fantastic,” he is fond of saying.

My cheeks grow warm as I remember the words oft uttered not only in praise of my deductive abilities but in praise of other abilities. In the privacy of our bedroom. “Pish posh,” I will say, but immensely delighted I am able to please my husband.

Ahem. I must get back to the matter at hand—my lying husband. John stirs, and I am saved, for the moment at least, from the dark path down which my mind has been wending. I unfold myself from the chair to join him on the bed.

“Morning, love.” Eyes still closed, hair tousled, my husband smiles and lifts his mouth for a kiss.

“If you call three p.m. ‘morning,’” I say, leaning in to kiss him. But by the time I reach them, his lips have moved.

“What? Afternoon?! Why didn’t you wake me?” John scoots off the bed and into the bathroom, warming up the shower while he uses the facilities. “We have to be to the tux shop before five. Put some clothes out for me?”

I pick through the clothes John brought; they could belong to anyone _but_ my husband. Never a man who has been deeply invested in what he wears—comfortable, durable, and sensible would be how I would describe his wardrobe—John availed himself of the opportunity to shop at upscale stores as we awaited our flight at Heathrow. ~~~~

As I peruse his clothes, a new clue takes shape. If I am not mistaken about it (and truly, how likely is it that I will be mistaken?), I will soon be presenting Exhibit C.

Placing a pair of shorts, a shirt, and a comfortable pair of walking shoes on the edge of the bed, I walk to the bathroom and rest against the doorjamb, crossing my arms. “John? Does Mathew Kelleghan live in L.A.?”

“What? Who?”

Who? As if he does not know who. Pfft. “The actor you like so much.”

An inordinately long pause follows.

“Oh, Mathew.” First name only, as if they were best friends. (Mathew will _never_ be John’s best friend. _I_ am.) “Uh, I don’t know where he lives. Never thought about it.” Another pause. “How’d you know about him?”

Never thought about it. Poppycock. And crestfallen, I add the information to my growing pile of evidence. I have no choice; mysteries demand to be solved.

 **Exhibit C**. I have long known that my comfortable, durable, _sensible_ husband’s guilty pleasure is celebrity watching. I find tabloids shoved under our mattress at home, links to celebrity websites on his laptop, celebrity gossip apps on his phone. I have never said a word about it—we all have our, shall I say, foibles—but, then, as one can see, he keeps his fascination close to the vest. And his primary fascination is Mathew Kelleghan. Yes, the lover in George Culpepper’s domestic triangle.

 **Summary to date:** Missing texts; lengthy phone call to the International Private Detectives Association; fashionable new clothes; flagrantly obvious denial of knowing in which city the actor lives.

 **Preliminary conclusion** : My husband intends to find and meet Mathew Kelleghan while we are here in Los Angeles. To what purpose, I do not want to think about.

~**~ 

John pivots slowly, examining himself from all angles in the set of mirrors at the formal wear shop. “Not too bad for an old bloke, eh?”

I am at a loss for words. Difficult to believe, I know; it is a conundrum that baffles even me. I have hundreds of thousands of words at my disposal, in multiple languages, yet to have this vision before me leaves me speechless. Breathless.

After no small amount of emotional blackmail, I had managed to talk John into renting a tuxedo for a movie premiere George Culpepper invited us to. John has always said he will leave the “spiffing up” to me, but judging by his glow, I will have no more trouble getting him into formal attire.

“You think it’s okay?” he asks my reflection, still waiting for a response.

The top button of my shirt is not fastened, yet I have become overly warm and feel the need to stretch out my collar. “Yes, fine, John. Just fine.” The garment fits his form perfectly, conforming to his bum and thighs as if sculpted especially for him. The sleeves sit at an optimal length, enhancing the strength of his hands. His hands. My breathing labors as I recall, in vivid detail, what they did to me the night before we left home.

I swallow, my gulp likely audible across the building. “What is that word you call me when you find me particularly appealing?” I ask, staring lustfully at my husband’s ass. It is all I can do not to reach out and give it a healthy squeeze.

“Hot?” John offers.

A worthy candidate, but…“No.”

“Sublime?”

“That is not it.”

“Delectable?”

“No, no, no. _Think_ John.” The word is on the tip of my tongue, and I am going mad trying to narrow it down.

“Well…” John rattles off a list of adjectives and pet names that goes on. And on. And I am mesmerized. A few I have not heard for some time, and I am filled with admiration at his recall.

“Scrumptious! That is it, John. You are absolutely scrumptious!”

“I think that’s taking it a bit far,” John says with characteristic modesty, but his crinkling eyes tells me he is pleased.

And the unwelcome notion flits through my mind that perhaps Mathew Kelleghan is the reason John was so easily persuaded to wear a tuxedo. Perhaps Kelleghan himself will be at the premiere, and that was the information that John was trying to secure from the detective association. I am dismayed at the thought.

“John,” I say, taking my time to choose my words carefully, knowing there are still times he has the audacity to doubt the sincerity of my words. Hmphh. After all the years we have known each other.

“Yes, sweetheart,” he says from the changing room.

“Are you certain you want to rent the tux? It is not too late to back out.”

John ducks his head out. “But I thought you liked it. I mean, _really_ liked it.”

I study a fingernail, giving me a reason to avoid looking at him so that he will not see the flame in my cheeks as I recall how very much I do admire him in a tuxedo. “I do like it, John. But it was selfish of me, pushing it on you like that. I know how you abhor ‘gussying up,’ and I, well, I want to save you the discomfort.”

John is quiet, and I am forced to look at him.

“What is this about, Sherlock?” he says, eyebrows raised, suspicious of my motives. “It’s not that you’re never concerned about being selfish, but it was a neck-snapping turnaround, you have to admit.”

I sit up straight. “I admit no such thing. I am only thinking of you, John, as I always do. If you rather I would not…”

John cocks his head, his brow still approaching his hairline, but I do not break. Locked in battle for several moments, I see John give in. His entire countenance softens—his face, his stance. Ha. I have won.

“No, you haven’t won,” John says, and shakes his head. “And don’t pout like that; you know how easy you are to read. For me at least. Anyway, I’m wearing the damn tux. Yes, yes, I know, you’ve hounded me for years, and no, I’ve never wanted to wear one. And I didn’t this time, either. But now that I’ve put one on, I have to say I kind of like it. So get it out of your head that it’ll make me uncomfortable. It won’t. Okay?”

My husband’s words sound genuine, and his expression appears free from deceit, but I cannot rid Mathew from my mind. I also cannot tell John I am on to his plan. In ordinary circumstances—that is, if my suspicions did not regard my own husband—I would be certain I was correct. But given the circumstances, I harbor the minutest of doubts, and I do not want to confront John until I rid myself of all questions. Until I am able to produce Exhibit D.

I acquiesce. Standing, I go to John, put my arms around him and hold him tight. “Of course, John. Whatever you want. I want you happy.” At first, he is startled at the depth of emotional response to such a small spat (how well he knows me), but then he relaxes into the embrace.

And soon we are out the door onto the bustling street, the wardrobe bag in one hand, and my husband’s hand firmly in the other. The air outside is stifling, and I long for our country cottage— unimpeded breezes, air unsullied by smog…no handsome young actor lurking around the corner.

“Oh, Henry; look at those two old gentlemen holding hands,” a voice behind us says. “Aren’t they adorable?! I hope we’re that romantic when we’re their age.”

Old gentlemen? What old gentlemen? The woman could not have been speaking of John and me; we are not… _old_. Glancing about, I see no other pairs of men, but I do see a woman mere steps behind us. Her flaming orange hair dispatched into a chaotic arrangement reminiscent of a firework display, she has the audacity to smile at me, waggling her fingers in a gesture that is far too coquettish for her advanced years; she must be at least fifty years old.

I glare at her, and her companion puts his hand on her, pulling her to a stop. Ha! He has deduced she is in danger. From me. And rightly so. She spoke of my husband and me as if we were children.

John must sense my outrage, for the loose hold he has on my hand tightens. Whether a gesture of comfort or a caution, I do not know. And I do not care.

“How patronizing,” I rumble to John. “We are grown men. Handsome, debonair, refined—these are all valid descriptors. But _adorable_? Next thing you know, she will chase us down and ruffle our hair!”

“Keep your voice down, will you, love? I’m sure she meant no offense. Besides, it’s been a long time since anyone’s called me adorable. I kind of like it.” John’s thumb strokes my palm and, with an amiable smile gracing his handsome face, he turns to nod at the woman.

“Are you saying I am insufficient for you, John?” My words are biting; I want John to know I am offended. But because the lazy thumb methodically circling my palm round, and round, and round… My mind goes blank, and I blink, trying to recall what I was saying, but it is impossible to do so when I am under attack by John’s thumb on my palm.

“I love you,” I murmur, any other thought gone from mind.

“I know. And I’m very glad you do.” John lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses it, his impish grin mirroring the mischievousness in his eyes. (To those who do not know him well, my husband appears angelic enough, but he is deceptively manipulative—a trait I hold in high regard. Besides, much of his cunning directly benefits me.)

My brief respite from disgruntlement is shattered when I catch sight of a man in a shop window. An old man. His tall frame slightly stooped, his dark hair daubed generously with grey. His chin slack with age. ~~~~

And I realize. It is me. The man in the window is me.

Preoccupied with the reflection I saw in the shop window, I am quiet on our walk back to the hotel. And I notice that my gait is not as athletic as it once was. That my left knee, unbeknownst to me, has developed a hitch so trifling, I did not notice it. Not until now. What more is there?!

When we arrive at our suite, I hurry to the bathroom and slam the door, my only thought to see what looks back at me in the mirror.

“You all right, honey?” John is at the door, and I hear the worry in his voice.

“Must be something I ate last night,” I say, raking through my hair, dazed at the extent of greying. How have I never noticed? Me, the most observant man in the world? But now that my eyes are open to the revelation, I see what else I have shut them to. For what must have been years, I have been oblivious to the developing wrinkles, the sagging skin. Liver spots (shudder). And if I squint, I see the paunch of my belly.

The woman had been right; I have grown old.

And that this matters to me is disconcerting. After all, aging is a biological mandate, a state of being that cannot be expedited or slowed in any appreciable sense, and its progression can be interrupted only by the cold hand of Death. And I do not fear Death. Yet, I am not oblivious to the fact that youthfulness matters to others. It has a value that advancing years do not.

A frightening thought occurs. Has John noticed I am old?

I pace. Turning, turning, as I reach the far side of the room in a few strides and have to pivot and go back to from where I came.

 ~~~~I do not intend to disparage John’s intellect, but his observation skills are, admittedly, lacking. (Yes, of course, I love him anyway. Pfft. What a ridiculous question.) I speculate what he will do when it dawns on him that I have grown old. Will he acquire a lover to satisfy his more prurient interests, someone more appealing to gaze upon? Worse yet, will he search for a replacement husband?

My musings are by no means a referendum on my husband’s character; he is loyal to a fault. But even such a man can be tempted by beauty. Even a man as perfect as John can be influenced by a male’s innate propensity to acquire, and conquer, a younger, more virile mate.

I stop pacing, and the whole of me sags. I have stumbled upon the final piece of evidence, the linchpin to the theory I have not wanted to believe. And yet, I have to believe it, for I am never wrong.

 **Exhibit D:** John _has_ noticed I am old.

 **Final conclusion:** John did not come to Hollywood merely to meet Mathew Kelleghan, he came to woo him. To acquire, and conquer, a younger, more virile mate.

I take again to pacing the floor. This is a dilemma unlike any I have encountered. For as long as I can remember, John has told me I am perfect as I am. That there is, and never will be, anything he would want to change about me. In true fashion, there was one thing he missed—that I would get old.

I take a seat on the edge of the bathtub and do what I have done only a handful of times in my life and only on the rarest, direst occasions—I wallow in self-pity. I allow myself to be enshrouded by the dark cloud of despair hanging over my head, knowing that John is going to leave me and I will have to go home alone to an empty house with no hope of him ever coming home and I will have to see his beloved face on the cover of tabloids with a young, devastatingly handsome actor who—

A light tap on the door interrupts my thoughts.

“Sherlock, honey, I’m really getting worried. Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want me to call the concierge to see if they have some bicarbonate of soda on hand?”

I take a deep breath and sigh as quietly as I can so John will not hear. When he leaves me, I will miss him terribly. My despondency at soon losing him makes it difficult for me to move even the smallest muscle, but with a heavy heart, I manage to say, “Do not worry, John. I will be out in a few minutes.”

Oh, how I long for the sweet draw of a cigarette. Thirty-five years on and I still crave the injection of nicotine into my bloodstream. I miss the way it would calm me and help me to think, the way just holding a cigarette would help me focus. To give my hands something to do while I think, from the nearby basket, I choose a glossy magazine and flip through it. Not my finest idea, for staring up at me from the pages are young, attractive, smooth-skinned people. Selling everything from shampoo to watches to luxury sedans. Furs and resorts and lingerie.

And youth.

Yes, youth. As in wrinkle-free, spot-free skin.

I grunt and flip the page, muttering under my breath about the inanity of it. Yet…

Ordinarily, the services offered are nothing I would consider, but this is not an ordinary circumstance, is it. It is not every day I am about to lose my husband.

“Sherlock?” John sounds more worried than the last time he checked on me.

“All is well, John.” Well, at least I anticipate all soon will be. My voice sounds stronger than it did earlier as I reassure him I will be out soon. My heart feels stronger as I debate the option before me: Botox. Yes, I know what you are thinking. But I am not as unfamiliar with the neurotoxin as you might think. I have come across it in my work; administered in the right doses under the right circumstances, it is quite safe. And judging by the photographs in the advertisement, quite effective.

I do some rapid research on my phone, all the while contemplating an act for which I would deride others. Yet knowing that if I do not take some drastic measure, I will certainly lose my husband. And it is not all about me. I will be doing John a great favor; by making myself more attractive, he will have no need to find someone new. I will save him the bother of breaking in an unfamiliar partner. No one likes change, especially not John.

The more I think about it, the more exited I become. And with invigorating delectation, I arise from the tub and stand tall, giddy with relief and anticipation. I defy villainous Old Age, refusing to let him come between my husband and me. Tomorrow, while John is taking his tour of stars’ homes, I will make myself young.

I will save our marriage.

~*~ 

Now that you have heard the circumstances leading to John finding me in a Botox clinic on Sunset Boulevard, suffering from an allergic reaction, please, do not judge me harshly. Have you never loved someone so much that you would do anything, _anything_ , to keep them, no matter how foolhardy? Hmm, I presumed as much.

I will continue with the story…

“… ever, _ever_ , pull such a ridiculously stupid stunt again, I swear to God, if it doesn’t kill you, I will.” John kisses my temple. “Got that?”

I nod my head in agreement, yet I try to reason my way out. “I cannot bear the thought of losing you, John, and it was supposed to be a safe procedure. Besides, are you not too settled in your ways to go off gallivanting with someone new? No matter how enticing? I was doing it for you, John. Truly.”

“What are you on about?” John’s brow furrows in a perfect imitation of the “before” pictures in the Botox adverts.

“I know all about you and Kelleghan. I know you are planning to meet him, woo him, stay in Hollywood with him.” A sharp pain stabs me between my ribs at the very thought, but I must be brave. “I love you, John, but I understand if you have to go. Be happy.”

My beloved’s face turns a fascinating shade of red. “What. The. Ever-loving. Fuck? I thought we took care of this a long time ago, Sherlock. You swore you don’t doubt I love you. What changed?” John’s eyes cloud over, pushing aside the anger, and I see true pain.

Remarkably, I feel worse than I did a moment ago, a fact I would not have thought possible. “I know you love me. It is just that…”

“That what, honey?”

“Biology. Your mind might tell you that you love me–”

“And my heart,” John says.

“And your heart.” I will concede the point. Gratefully. “But, biology, John. I have grown old; I know you know. You do. And it is written into a man’s DNA to desire, and therefor seek out, the younger, more fertile specimens of a species.”

“And you believe that, do you?”

“I do, John.”

“ _You_ believe that, that a person can’t control their libido?” My husband looks at me intently. “You, who set aside the desires of your own biology so you could pursue cases, so you could _think._ You, who, as far as I know, never desired another human being until we got together. And for all I know, haven’t looked at anyone but me, since. You, yourself, prove the point that those impulses can be controlled.”

“You have a point, John. But I am a rare exception—”

“In all ways,” he says, his soft voice a far cry from the Angry John minutes ago.

“Sex and desire were never important to me until you,” I say. “But they have been important to you all your life, and I see no reason for it to be different now.”

His lips set in a line so thin they almost disappear, John nudges me. “Scooch over.” And when I do, he lays down on the narrow space and props himself on his elbow.

"Let me tell you something.” John licks his lips, an overture to whatever serious words he has to say. “When I look at you, the man I’ve been in love with for the last thirty-odd years, all I can think is that every day you are more beautiful than the day before and that every day I love you more than the day before.”

I frown, doubtful of John’s words. That they are not shameful hyperbole perfected by a lifetime of romantic whimsy.

“What I see when I look at you, my love, is a man who, at sixty-eight years old, is still the most vibrant, curious, energetic person I know. You move and think at a speed that would put most thirty-year-olds to shame.”

“But that’s how I am; it has nothing to do with my outward appearance.”

“Okay, you have a little wobble.” John tucks his finger under my chin and gently pins saggy skin against my neck. “And your eyes and mouth crinkle when they move.” He smooths the fingertip around each side of my mouth and at the outer edges of my eyes. “And yeah, there’s some grey there,” he says as he threads his fingers through my hair, chuckling as he adds, “which I beat you to by at least a couple of decades.

“But when I see those things, the evidence, the _biology_ of your age, all I see is a lifetime of _you_. Of being with you. They’re a reminder of the incredible life you’ve lived, of the incredible life we’ve lived together. It’s like you’re an animated scrapbook, a treasury of memories that can never be tarnished. I love you, Sherlock, and I lust after you. No wrinkles or sagging arse or balding head is going to change that.”

My hand flies to my head. “Balding?”

John laughs, a throaty sound that bubbles out of him. “Vain arse. Not yet. But you might someday, and I won’t care a whit. It’s the total package I’m in love with, not the bits and pieces.”

We lie quietly, John’s hand on my hip and his nose nudged against my cheek. It comes to me, as it has countless times before, that I do not think I have ever loved him more. And that, as it has been countless times before, I do not deserve him.

“Yes, you do,” John says quietly, resting his cheek on mine.

“I do what?”

“You deserve me. Sorry about that.”

I can feel the smile on his face, and I grunt, unwilling to argue about it.

“Let’s get you out of here,” he says, giving me a kiss on the mouth and sitting up. But he does not get off the bed.

“Uh, Sherlock?”

"Mmmhmm?”

"There’s something I have to tell you.” Something in his voice tells me he is hesitant. That it is something I will not like. “There’s something I didn’t tell you because I wanted it to be a surprise, but I never thought trying to keep it a secret would lead to all this. My fault, really, that you’re here.”

“Rubbish. Your sense of fair play is playing tricks on you, John. It was not you who–”

“It really is my fault. I–”

I put a finger to his still-moving lips. “I believe that what I have put you, put us, through has absolved you of any wrong doing you might think you have committed. Has the surprise yet happened?”

“Well, no. It’s tomorrow night. The movie premiere was just a pretense.”

“Good, then. We shall keep it a surprise. But know this. It is not for me that I ask you not to tell me, but for you. You obviously went to a lot of trouble to keep it hidden from me, so I will wait. Agreed?”

Indecision plays on John’s face, no doubt a struggle between guilt and anticipation. But he agrees. “Okay. You’ll like it. At least, I hope you will.”

“I am sure I will,” I say, never more certain of anything. As long as I have John, there is nothing more I could want.

~*~ 

“What is _that_?” Horrified, I stare at the offending article at John’s neck, pointing in its general direction but not touching it. Throughout my life, there have been countless numbers of places my hands have been that others have found unseemly: days-old corpses, maggot-ridden trash, sewage so pungent it could render someone unconscious with a single whiff. But to touch  _this_ would be asking too much.

“What’s what, honey?” John flattens his chin against his chest and looks down at his shirt. He tugs his shirt this way and that, apparently for a better view. “Did I spill some tea?”

“Not your shirt. _That._ ” I tip his chin up and point. “Your tie.” I look away; it is too much to bear.

“Yeah. And? What’s wrong with it?” John is truly mystified.

I tsk in dismay. Has he learned so little in all these years? Can he really not know?

“Is it crooked? Let me look.” John heads to a mirror.

“It is a clip-on,” I say, a shiver running through me.

Mid-step, John stops and turns, throwing his hands up. “Is that all? What’s wrong with that? It looks as good as yours, and I don’t know how to tie a bow tie.”

I march my husband to the mirror and tell him to wait. Fetching the emergency spare tie I had packed, I join him at the mirror, standing behind him and placing the tie around his neck. Taking hold of the ends, I fold them over each other, the act of creating the tie almost second nature. Fold. Pull. Thread. Loop. Pinch. Pull. I lean lightly into John’s warm, sturdy body while I do this. Watch his reflection in the mirror watching me. Seeing in his eyes the window to his heart that tells me that I am everything he wants, everything he needs.

How could I have been so stupid as to think otherwise?

When the bow is complete, I linger, not wanting to leave his side, not wanting to interrupt this moment that is perfect in every way. I wrap my arms around him and rest my head on his shoulder. And John relaxes into me, welcoming this respite from a hectic few days. It is times like this, moments like this, that I feel most at peace.

A knock on the door to our suite tells us the limo has arrived, and John groans. I agree.

“We can stay here,” I say, deepening my voice seductively and giving John’s earlobe a playful nip, “and order room service, instead.”

John winds himself around in my arms, gives me a round kiss on my lips, and slips from my grasp. “Uh uh. You’re not getting out of it so easily, mister. The bed will still be here when we get back.”

I pretend to pout, but I am already sliding my jacket on. I do not want to disappoint my husband.

The ride to our destination is quiet. My hand clasped with John’s, I ponder what this surprise of his is. Historically, when I am to receive a present, my heart is aflutter, and my imagination fills with the things that could delight me. But not tonight. Tonight, the only gift that has any meaning sits right next to me, his thigh pressed against mine.

“I love you, John.”

He squeezes my hand in answer; there is no need for words.

I take in a deep breath when the limo pulls up at the curb of a posh hotel, a steady stream of elegantly clad people heading inside. Not a movie premiere, but still, some type of soiree. Drat. I would so prefer spending time alone with John. But, I remind myself, this is not about me. Yes, it is a gift for me, but the lengths to which John has gone to surprise me must be honored. I will do my best to be gracious. (Do not look at me like that. Yes, _me_ be gracious! One cannot live with—and for—John Watson and not learn a few things. Now hush.)

Trailing John out of the vehicle, amidst the hoard of people, I glimpse a balding hairline that looks far too familiar. No. It could not be. Wait, is it? I squint through the crowd, and not only do I confirm that yes, indeed, it was Mycroft I saw, but I pull into focus two other faces I know so well. Katie? Lestrade? What are they doing so far from London? This is all too mysterious.

Aha! I have it!

“John, have you won an award for your book? How magnificent. You deserve every good thing.” My heart swells with pride.

John’s eyes shine, and he struggles to contain a smile that is trying hard to burst from his lips. “Nope. You’ll just have to wait and see,” he says, lifting my hand to his mouth and kissing it.

His words give promise to something more momentous. A CBE for him, perhaps? But that makes no sense; the presentation would not be here, in America.

“John, what is going on?” I hiss at his back as we head toward our daughter and, when reaching her, we each give her a kiss on the cheek and a hug.

And as I am holding Katie, telling her what a delightful surprise it is to see her, as I look over her shoulder, I am bewildered to see a number of globally-renowned detectives standing nearby, chatting. Have they, as John, authored novels? (You likely think I would be unaware, nay, dismissive of the identity of other private detectives and the such; what need would I have for such trivial information? You would be wrong. A number of years ago, I researched “renowned” private detectives, eyeing the competition, if you will. Not surprisingly, I was underwhelmed by their accomplishments. Pffft. Most of their cases I would solve in half the time. With significantly fewer resources.)

“Sherlock Holmes, you old bugger!” A booming voice precedes the rotund figure approaching me; August McDonnell, a Glaswegian detective whom I have never met, yet he has the temerity to treat me like a long-lost mate. He claps me heartily on the back, nearly sending me stumbling. And as if by calling my name McDonnell has sent up a flare, a flock of detectives swarms me, greeting me: Pierre Perot, Canada; Rodrigo Santana, Columbia; Sarah McKellan, New Zealand; and more. I try to keep track of who is speaking and who is shaking my hand, but it all becomes an overwhelming blur.

John! I cry out silently, frantically searching for him. John!

“Sherlock, I’m here honey.” Before I spy him, John’s arm snakes around my waist, and I list into him, letting him anchor me.

Uncaring if I am rude, I turn my back on the people speaking to me and pull John to the side. “Tell me what is going on, John. This is not about you and your book, is it. Or Hollywood. Or a movie. It is about me. You tricked me.”

Looking far too pleased with himself and not at all ashamed, John says, “I did trick you. The International Private Detective Association wants to give you an honorary award, and I didn’t think I’d get you to California if I told you what was really up. Do you know how hard it is to keep something from you?”

“But what about the text from Candy Cane? What about the movie?”

“Not my agent. I don’t have an agent. It was Katie texting me on an alternate account—”

And as he talks, my mind is working. The deleted texts. The unusually long phone call. Agreeing to wear a tux. It all makes sense. Though he likely did not count on my active imagination folding Mathew Kelleghan into the mix. Nor could he ever have imagined I would worry about my aging body.

Yes, John Watson may be a horrible liar, but he is the best husband anyone could ever have. To go to such lengths to show how much he loves me...

A look of mild distress appears on John’s face. “No, no, honey. Please don’t do that. It’s a _good_ thing. You deserve it.” A handkerchief appears in his hand, and he brushes my cheeks with it. Dabs at my eyes.

“I am _not_ crying. Just a light sprinkle coming down. Probably brought it with us from home.” I blink away moisture from my eyes.

John smiles. “You’re right; that’s what it is,” he says, stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket.

“But,” I say, “if I _were_ crying—and I am not saying I am—it is because I love you so much. That anyone could love me enough to have gone to all the trouble to arrange this. And without me knowing the real reason why. What would I do without you, John Watson?”

John takes me into his arms and nuzzles his face into my neck. “Sherlock, love, that’s one thing you’re _never_ going to find out.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> No Other Baby is off of Paul McCartney's Run Devil Run album. He recorded the song not long after Linda's death (his soulmate wife of 30 years), and the video for the song is heartbreaking.


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